Morning broke over the city of bridges and the light of the dawn revealed the chaos of the evenings attack. The north garrison had crumbled completely, the broken hexagonal towers reduced to little more than mounds of stone, timber and the slain. Karsusians and city militia alike had fought to a man there and died in the dark save for the light of the ever-burning marsh. The fetid stench of the marsh mingled and mixed with the air of battle, the smell of blood and dead hopes. Smoke drifted skyward as the slain, too numerous to bury were heaped into piles and burned, a grim offering to the gods above. 

The walls had taken little in the way of damage. Only a few battlements had been lost, but many of the city militia had fallen to the Karsusians bloodlust. On the north shore, the mercenaries camp had been utterly destroyed and supplies and weapons abandoned. The attacking army had been completely routed, or died at the walls, or fled into the hills. 

Maren opened her eyes. The morning light shone threw the shattered stain glass of the temple. She found herself in a makeshift bed of hay and ragged cloth. She winced, pain suddenly surging through her shoulder and back. Then she remembered the city wall, Cassius and the strange warrior woman. The battle. All of it. The orcs. Rushing down the stairs and then...darkness. 

[i]Oh...gods. I'm so foolish![/i]

Maren had exhausted herself. Barely slept since the flight from Erlahd Castle. They had spent weeks on the road, always evading her brother's patrols. Gathering those to her cause where they could. Restless nights in tavern stables. Sleeping in the wilderness. She was a princess, not accustomed to this sort of thing. She steeled herself against her bruised shoulder and sat up. 

She was in a small chapel, an annex of the larger temple. She was dressed in a light tunic, stained with dirt and ash. Beside her bed lay her tunic and robes, neatly folded. Her dagger rested on top. She snatched the dagger and slowly pulled on her tunic and robes. She looked around the room. A few beds, some occupied, some not were scattered around the room. Beneath the eastern window was a small altar with the idol of Askari, the Healing Mother. "Healing Mother," she whispered sitting up in bed, "Your care will be much needed today," She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the bed beside her.  

There was a man. Eyes wide and staring. Dead. He wore fine clothes, a tunic of dyed silk and around his neck was the silver chain of the merchants guild. The man looked east, towards the statue of Askari and the shattered stained glass. He may have been handsome, but the bandaged wounds and the grimace on his face uneased Maren. Maren felt queasy and looked away. 

"Viago, my most hated rival," said a weak voice. His words were fluid, with the accent of the distant sea kingdoms. Maren tensed, and gripped her dagger reflexively. In the furthest corner a man sat upright in his own bed. He too wore the merchants chain, but his clothes were simple, dirty and stained. 

"Who are you?" said Maren. 

"A very fortunate man, M'lady," said the merchant. He pulled his tunic to show Maren a jagged wound, sutured up and already reduced in swelling. "The monks here are very skilled," he said weakly.  

"Not for Viago, it would seem," said Maren. 

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, away from dead Viago and glared at the merchant. "I asked your name sir, not your destiny," 

"My name is Iago Vontclaire," he said.  "And you are Maren Trevoste," he said with a grin. 

Maren scoffed. "No you are mistaken, my name is..." she began, but was cut short as the chapel door opened and there appeared a monk in dark robes. He said nothing as he entered the chapel, and approached the bed of Viago. He touch his brow, and then the deceased and said a silent word, closing the mans eyes. He lifted the sheet over the body and lowered his head in prayer. Maren and Iago watched in silence.